


Small Coffee

by neuroglam



Series: Nikiforov/Plisetsky Translations [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff, M/M, OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 16:32:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10137782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neuroglam/pseuds/neuroglam
Summary: “What can I get you?”“Hmmm, let me think,” Victor is the very picture of contemplation before his face spreads in a smile. “Could I have you?”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Маленькое кафе](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/271295) by akai_kasa. 



> The fic is tagged and summarized as the original author intended. By reading, you assume all responsibility for what you find herein.
> 
> Also, I'm improving but I still sound a little off. But meh--progress? Maybe?

“I’ve always dreamed of opening a coffeeshop,” Mila says as she tucks fancily folded napkins into a holder. “Does this look like a chrysanthemum?” she asks, critically surveying her work.

“More like an aster,” Victor says.

“So, anyway, here’s me, wanting to open a coffee shop—or, even, a pastry store,” continues Mila. “Tiny and cozy. And then, there’s my two friends—one of which used to love harping on how none of this could ever work. But, as you can see, it has worked out wonderfully, and that friend of mine now works as my waiter. Because he flunked out of art school, so now he needs to channel his unrealized creative potential into coffee stencils and latte art.” At the end of her tirade, she raises her voice so high they can probably hear her in the street.

Yuri breaks the lead of his pencil on the sketchbook and decides he should probably buy a mechanical one.

“Your order will be ready in a couple of minutes,” he tells an older guy and sets off for the kitchen with a polite smile on his face.

Overall, he’s quite content with his lot.

Mila’s coffeeshop is indeed small—ten little tables tops—and cozy. And unassuming—hiding in a side alley, its windows softly lit at night.Yuri thinks that if he didn’t work here, he probably wouldn’t notice it even if he were to stare head-on at the hanging sign with the loopy cursive letters.

Yuri even likes tinkering with the coffee. But even more so, he likes the smiling faces of his clients when they look at the blooming flowers or the fancy, intricate patterns on their drinks. (But he would never admit any of this aloud).

Yuri even (almost) likes Mila’s other friend, Katsuki Yuuri, whom she somehow talked into coming all the way over from Japan. Yuri doesn’t care how: the most important thing is, Yuuri cooks well and he doesn’t know that much Russian.

But this Victor guy doesn’t even rank an “almost.” He first showed up a month ago, and since then Yuri's said goodbye to his sense of calm and inner peace.

Victor has since come to the coffee shop every blasted day.

The pencil (third one this week) crunches in his fingers, close to breaking. Yuri’s quiet for a minute, tensely choosing between a stroppy “What do you want?” and a rude, “You again?”

He settles on the standard.

“What can I get you?”

“Hmmm, let me think,” Victor is the very picture of contemplation before his face spreads in a smile. “Could I have you?”

“The usual, then,” nods Yuri and turns to the three schoolgirls on the next table. “And what can I get _you_?”

The schoolgirls and Victor are all regulars, but to his surprise, Yuri has much more good will towards the schoolgirls. At one point they’d even told him their names, but he hadn’t bothered to remember them, preferring instead to call them sweet and meaningless nicknames—only in his own head, of course. The schoolgirls order sweet lattes and pastry rolls ‘with that green stuff.’

‘ _That green stuff,’ for your reference, is called gelatine_ , distractedly thinks Yuri. Aloud, he says:

“Would you like me to draw anything on your lattes?”

“Little stars!” says freckle-covered Waffle.

“Kittens!” says curly Cream Puff.

“Could I have flowers?” says chubby Bun.

“Why don’t you ever offer to draw anything for me?” says Victor.

Mila doesn’t say a thing but barely holds in her laughter when Yuri, finished with the schoolgirls’ orders, diligently writes out a missive in caramel syrup on a freshly-brewed cappuccino.

“I put my deepest emotions into it,” he announces, putting the mug before Victor.

“Excellent!” Victor exclaims for some reason, and Yuri realized that his efforts have had absolutely no effect.

That night, Mila shows him they’ve been tagged in yet another Instagram picture. The coffee, with a calligraphically rendered “GFYS” on top, is accompanied by a post that says, “My darling makes the best cuppa in the whole world.”

The next day, Yuri is a little late to work—”a little” meaning more like an hour.

“I’m sorry, I overslept,” he says, yawning. “Doesn’t matter much, right, nobody will come this early any...” Halting in the middle of the word, he honestly considers turning around and going back out. Being in the torrential spring rain seems better than seeing Victor coo at Yuuri.

“What the fuck is _he_ doing here?” He whispers loudly.

“Waiting for you.” Mila slaps him on the neck and goes back to wiping tables. “Just like those kids in the corner. If you’re late again, you’ll be looking for a new job!”

“What do you think, do I stand a chance, Yuuri-kun?” asks Victor.

“I doubt it,” Yuuri responds, imperturbably stocking fresh cakes in the display case. “Yuri said that you… how is that in Russian—piss him off?—Victor...” and in a couple of seconds adds, “-san.”

Yuri’s trying to be even friendlier than usual, shouting, “Welcome!” whenever the bell above the door rings out, and makes Yuuri his favorite latte in gratitude—with exquisite sakura blossoms from strawberry milk foam.

Yuri comes late the day after, too.

“It’s only ten minutes,” he says almost guiltily as he reaches to tie up his hair with a scrunchie.

He’s not even surprised that Victor is already here.

“What do you want?” asks Yuri, pulling on his uniform apron.

“A latte. Take away,” answers Victor.

After he walks out, Yuri incredulously peers at the little hearts and such further nonsense that have been doodled on one of the sketchbook pages. “Have a nice day,” it says. If only.

He tears out the sketchbook page—of course he does—but for some reason, he doesn’t throw it out. 

“You look like a complete dumbass,” says Mila as she rings up the till, “You gaze so tenderly at that paper.”

“Not at all. I’m only thinking about how crap he is at drawing.” Yuri shrugs. “Where did he even come from?”

“He’s a sales manager in the window company, two blocks from here,” says Mila with something like scorn. “If you paid attention to anything but yourself occasionally, you’d have known where I found us new windows at such a discount.”

“Next time I’ll give you a cut,” she adds.

Victor comes in every day, and Yuri does his best to treat him like he’s yet another fixture in the interior—like Mila’s favorite fern in the corner, for instance. It works—kind of.

“You couldn't even comprehend how sick of him I’ve grown,” Yuri whines for yet another evening in a row. “Do you think we should close an hour earlier?”

“Sick of him?” Yuuri asks, stacking plates in the dishwasher.

“Thoroughly,” nods Yuri. “Now feed me.”

Katsuki puts in front of him a plate of—Yuri cant even tell what. Looks like some kind of noodles.

“And yesterday,” Yuri continues, “he offered to walk me home.”

“How did it go?” enquires Yuuri, finishing up his cleaning.

“It didn’t,” Yuri says, smug. “I live three flights up.” 

In another week, Victor's managed to charm Yuuri, too. Yuri realizes this when, coming back from the store with a couple of boxes of fresh milk, he finds them in the middle of a most amiable conversation. Katsuki is showing Victor something on his phone.

“Victor said that Yuuri and Phichit are the cutest couple,” shares a sincerely Bored Mila. It’s five in the afternoon—usually nobody comes in at this hour. “Phichit’s coming over soon, by the way.”

“I’ll be expecting him—eagerly.” Yuri retorts indifferently, ripping up a package of paper cups. Deep down, however, he’s annoyed at Yuuri. Looks like he’s got no allies in this war any longer. Yuri’s only consolation is that it’s Friday today and the next two days portend a relative peace—Victor doesn’t come in on the weekend.

But when he doesn’t show on Monday, too, Yuri’s a little taken aback. When he doesn’t come on Tuesday—worried. On Wednesday—he feels like something’s missing. By the time the following weekend rolls up, he realizes that he’s gotten used to having Victor around, devil take him.

“You’re so entertaining when you’re mad,” giggles Mila.

“I’m not mad,” snorts Yuri. The toothpick in his fingers crunches and breaks, and he looks at his third botched latte art today with dissatisfaction.

“You’re free to stay not-mad as long as you want, but make sure it doesn’t impact the quality of your service, yeah?” Mila picks up the coffee. “You forgot sugar, and they asked for three tea-spoons.”

Yuri sighs. It’s true that everything’s coming out wrong today. At one point he even mixes up the cinnamon and the pepper.

"Bereft without your admirer?” asks Mila, taking the order of an unremarkable student. Yuri doesn’t remember what he studies, just that he likes zig-zag lines of chocolate syrup on his coffee.

“Victor’s got nothing to do with it,” says Yuri over the sound of the coffee machine. “It's all this love and harmony,” he nods in the direction of the kitchen. “It's stressing me out.”

“You’re just envying them.” Mila slaps him on the shoulder and goes back to work on the new menu.

Yuri sniffs thoughtfully. The smell of cookies and caramel now mixes with that of basil and coriander: Phichit has finally arrived. And it’s not like Yuri doesn’t like him—on the contrary—and Thai food is very good, besides. But the soft happiness radiating from those two is enough to make him depressed.

The enthusiasm with which Mila’s decided to re-work their coffee selection doesn’t bring him any joy either.

But he’s not envious—absolutely not. He’s not bored, either. Neither does he startle every single time the little bell above the door rings.

The schoolgirls are talking about how his drawings are looking sad.

_______________________

“I overslept,” says Yuri, looking at his wristwatch. “Umm, a little bit?”

It was Sunday yesterday and he’d rolled around in bed almost until morning in a hopeless effort to fall asleep.

“Yes, it’s already six,” chides Mila, but instead of proceeding to threaten him with having to look for another job, she grins at him and points to the farthest corner of the room.

Yuri looks, but wishes he hadn’t.

“What the fuck?” he breathes out a whisper.

Victor is sitting at his usual spot, but he’s not alone, he’s with some woman. And for some reason Yuri feels played—when, thinking about it, he should be relieved. Shouldn’t he?

“I’m taking a day off,” he spits out when Victor sees him and waves.

“Hey!” Mila can’t even protest properly before he’s back out the door.

 _What even is wrong with me_ , he thinks, annoyed, and leans against the brick wall. The tip if his tongue burns like he’s rubbed it with ginger.

“What the fuck,” he says again, staring at the cracks of the pavement.

“You’re jealous,” says Victor very, very close to his ear.

“Where the fuck did _you_ come from?” Yuri jumps to the side. “And, no I’m not.”

“That wasn’t a question,” Victor smiles. “You’re jealous.”

“Well, even if I am,” Yuri looks sullenly. “What’s it to you?”

“It's a business meeting,” Victor raises a hand in a conciliatory gesture. “She’s just a client—like Mila. Feeling calmer now?”

Yuri does feel calmer and even goes back to work, but it’s only a few hours later, when he flips the “Closed”sign on the door, that he really gets what just happened.

“I’m jeal… ous?” he asks himself, freezing at the doorstep.

The day after, Victor tells them it’d been a terribly busy time at work—which is why he couldn’t come in for so long—and asks Yuri out. Yuri points out that he’s actually at work, but Mila says that, of course she’d give him extraordinary leave in the middle of the week.

“I even know where you guys should go!” she twitters. “They’ve opened an outdoor rink not far from here.”

“I can’t skate,”Yuri tries to somehow convey with a look that a date with Victor, wherever it may happen, is not a very welcome idea, but Mila deftly ignores him.

“It’s easy, I’ll teach you,” says Victor. Yuri contemplates pretending he’s ill.

_______________________

It’s unexpectedly cold at the rink. Yuri falls down every second meter, tripping on his own legs.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” asks Victor as he once again helps him stand up.

“No,” Yuri shakes his head, unsuccessfully trying to keep his balance. “It’s just that… well… this is my first time on a date.”

“That can’t be!” Victor laughs affably. Yuri clings to the rink wall.

“Is there a problem?” Actually, yes, he _is_ horribly uncomfortable—probably because this is his first time seeing Victor in casual clothes, and because Victor laced Yuri’s skates himself, listening to exactly zero of his protests—and now Yuri’s legs are not obeying him, trying to go every which way.

“Why don’t you hold my hand?” offers Victor.

Yuri is quickly persuaded that this way he falls much less. He doesn’t even protest when Victor laces their fingers together.

“I’m sorry, I was a horrible date,” says Yuri, rubbing at his hurt elbow.

“Not at all.” Victor looks indecently happy. “Thank you for going out with me.”

“Ee-h, not at all?” timidly answers Yuri. 

Victor offers to walk him home again. Somehow, this time Yuri can’t find a reason to say no.

“Your hair smells like cinnamon,” says Victor.

“Your lips are dry” says Yuri and makes a quick escape for the heavy front door.

This is his first time kissing someone, too—but then, Victor doesn’t really need to know about that.

**Author's Note:**

> I regret the English-speaking fandom is such that this needs to be said, but: only leave the original author positive feedback. This work was written by a Russian, for Russians, about two Russians, in Russian. If you have anything negative to say, discuss it with your friends. This is NOT YOUR CONVERSATION. Or mine. We're only here as observers.
> 
> Dragging me about the quality of the translation or the writing is OK. Drag away. I like writing feedback.


End file.
